


something’s got to give

by clerically



Category: A3! (Anime), A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Open Ending, References to Depression, References to Illness, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:15:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28944294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clerically/pseuds/clerically
Summary: You know just what to say when Miyoshi asks about your first impression of him later that evening: “Nothing less than exactly what I pictured”. He smiles so widely that his eyes and nose crinkle while his cheeks swell with a rosy hue.
Relationships: Miyoshi Kazunari/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	something’s got to give

**Author's Note:**

> i began writing this fic a few months ago, during a particularly stressful time in my life. i think writing about what i felt and the consequences that stayed with me really helped me sort through these emotions, especially since miyoshi has always been a huge comfort for me !! in any case, i hope you enjoy. we love projecting lol

Living is much harder than being alive, and you can only go so far to distract yourself from the fact. It’s impossible to say what your life used to be before this feeling of unease wrapped you in a coat of numbed pain. Your eyes filter the world through a layer of bleakness that dips everything in gray and that you can’t get rid of; it seems the more you try, the more inevitable your demise becomes.

Through painting, however, you discover a way to escape from your troubles and color your surroundings. It doesn’t even matter if it’s only momentary relief, because the soft scraping of the brush on the canvas silences your every doubt.

It starts with simple curiosity, with a box of watercolors hidden in a drawer full of long-forgotten things: it’s an old, unused gift from your mother, that reminds you of your shared passion for observing people and portraying them. And although the difference in ability between you two was clear, it was only due to your young age, because your mother’s talent merely mirrored the tenderness of your own art. You still love people, but you must have forgotten it somewhere along your mother’s hospitalization and your rejection of any and all other sources of joy.

Yet, by some cruel twist of fate, right then you can’t help but feel that those watercolors are your very last hope. The darkness has engulfed everything and you can’t see whatever’s up ahead, only the void that awaits you below. You need light, you need colors. So your fingertips lightly caress the plastic box, as if it were a rare treasure, and your mind is set; you gather the brushes kept sealed away in a casket and the albums crushed under stacks of schoolbooks and stationary, clean out your worktable and teach yourself how to paint all over again.

It’s the beginning of your third year of high school when you return to making art. By the end of the second semester you’ve learned to use charcoal and oil paints and you’re among the recommended students for the new year at the Veludo Arts University. It’s what you imagine your mother has always wished for you — when you tell her, on one of your weekly visits to the intensive care unit, you think you can see her slightly stir in her sleep. 

You find yourself adapting to your new life quite quickly, juggling between your studies and a part-time job at a bar. There is little time to be bored and overthink, which lets you breathe easy. And because the oxygen in your dorm room is stale and sticky and the walls like sand dust crumble over your head, you gladly wander around outside with a canvas and brushes at hand, for hours upon hours, and it’s there that you create the object of your academic debut. It’s a collection of landscapes with the same subject — the city. The colors are eccentric and the contrasts striking, while the perspective bends and breaks and falls apart like the shards of a cheap vase. You gradually grow to appreciate landscapes as the perfect distraction from the human figure.

Your paintings earn you an explosion of success among peers and teachers alike — which, for some reason you can’t define, feels very hollow to you. When you see your art hanging on a side of the hallway the pride that swells in your chest is one imbued with a vague sense of irritation and fear that surprises even yourself. It is short-lived, however, because the wall opposite your collection is soon occupied by a painting almost one meter long that completely steals the attention of everybody, including you. It depicts a night scene of a port with a single sailing boat floating away from the dock until it’s almost nothing more than a tiny dot on the horizon, where stars sprout and converge in a sort of whirlwind that reflects itself in the still waters below. The gradients are kind, sweet, and the warm hues of the twilight seem to embrace you. Looking closely enough, you can even see how the details in those unblinking stars make them resemble a huge fleet taking flight, and where the line between the sky and the sea disappears amidst the blues and purples and blacks, the small boat departs with the others — no longer alone, but getting farther and farther away.

Compared to the angry energy of your colors and strokes, this painting brings a pure feeling of calm after the storm, of silent hope, of concealed grief and its overcoming. You feel an uncontainable surge of respect and envy for the unknown artist, whose name you purposefully overlook. After all, as you have to remind yourself, you don’t especially care for people. 

But at the beginning of December, when quilts of snow start to cover the roads and the treetops, you meet someone. You’re introduced by a mutual friend, Sumire, the only one who hasn’t given up on your relationship despite your unresponsiveness — and you consider yourself extremely lucky to be attending the same university as her. She invites you to a gathering she’s been excitedly organizing herself; the first time she asks a “no” is about to roll off your tongue, when a sudden sense of guilt turns it into an “I’ll think about it” that allows her to keep pestering you for the following couple of days.

You wake from your reverie when Sumire calls you from behind the door to your dorm room, playfully singing your name, and the corners of your lips quirk up but your smile stays tight as you make your way to pull the door open. 

“So, have you decided about the mixer yet?” she whispers against the hinge with a sly smirk. “They all can’t wait to meet you, you know.”

Your gaze is lowered to the wooden planks of the parquet as you grind your teeth thoughtfully, and a moment goes by. You can only barely see her feet shuffle until she lightly prods your calf with her toes. “You gotta let loose once in a while, you do nothing but study and work...” Her voice is so unusually gentle that your eyes flicker to hers for a brief moment and you inhale sharply. You feel hesitant but the prospect of exchanging forced pleasantries with strangers for a whole evening makes your head spin. In any case, you’ve kept her anticipating long enough. You’ve avoided giving her a definitive answer until now because an ugly, bitter taste clogs your throat each time you make up your mind, but you decide that the mental strain just isn’t worth it. But no sooner do you open your mouth that you hear her sigh faintly and your back straightens in surprise.

“Listen,” Sumire tells you, a pointed edge now molding her words, “you need this. You’ve turned me down every other time I’ve invited you out, and I don’t mind, but I really want you to come tomorrow. You need to meet new people and go out for reasons other than painting. You need to take better care... Okay?”

Her words cut through your defenses like a butter knife, but you know it’s her worry that has sharpened them so. You feel shame crawl up your neck and cheeks as you stick your chin to your clavicle and you uncomfortably rock on your soles. It’s true: you’ve always refused to meet up with her since you entered university, so that you could prevent your and her sure disappointment, but her stubbornness makes you think you may be worth giving yourself a chance after all. You wonder if perhaps she’s right. You wonder if you’re strong enough to go the distance. But you’ve also been letting her and yourself down for far too long... Right then, when the thought flashes in your mind, you feel a particular sense of urgency — “Okay,” you say, barely above a mutter, but she hears. “I’ll go.” She slings her arms around your neck and embraces you tighter than ever before.

Sumire stops by your door at seven the next day. Her smile is tender when she sees you emerge from your room in a long woolen skirt, milky fleece coat and maroon clads and you flush with delight. She looks positively radiant. “I’m really glad you’re coming,” she tells you, and the relief is audible in her voice. “Let’s have fun today.”

“Sumire?” you hurriedly call out just as she’s about to turn, and she hums curiously. You hide your head between your shoulders and interlace your fingers tightly. “Thank you,” you breathe.

She flashes you a blinding, grateful grin that makes you truly confident that everything’s going to be fine, if only in that single instant. “Yeah” she simply says, and leads the way through the ashen corridors and then the pale knot of streets you still can’t distinguish, with your hand squeezed firmly in hers. 

She stops by the entrance of a karaoke bar, where you meet the rest of the girls. Sumire greets them enthusiastically with the hand you were grasping and is immediately sucked into a tangle of hugs and fervent chatter that leaves you one step behind. Your back hunches forward as the circle closes in front of you and you unconsciously make yourself as small as you can. They ask you for your name, but their attention is snatched away as soon as it comes. Sumire revels in the laughter surrounding her and you don’t blame her, not even after realizing that you weren’t being expected tonight after all. Maybe they’re holding back for your sake, or maybe you’re just not as worthy of attention as Sumire is. Or maybe you were never nothing more than a number to Sumire, and you deceived yourself into believing otherwise... Maybe she just doesn’t care. You instinctively recoil at the thought and you turn back the way you came from — if you disappeared right now nobody would notice, nor would they mind, and you need your four walls to hold on to because you’re starting to feel claustrophobic in your lonely bubble — but your mind draws a blank with the shock of hearing somebody call out. 

“Mimi!” a boy drawls, and your muscles stiffen. That’s right, you think, more people were supposed to show up. There’s still a flimsy chance for you to fit in. But what if everyone else would rather focus on each other and Sumire, preventing you from leaning onto her as your safe haven? What if your chances had extinguished the moment you set foot outside your door? And what if they were never there to begin with?

“Sorry we’re late, it took a while to separate Tsuzuroon from his little siblings...” He yelps in pain as another boy pinches his arm, but a chortle quickly rolls out of his mouth and he is soon echoed by the rest of the group. It all sounds so vapid to you, so artificial. You hear but do not listen. It’s as if a cloth was draped over the rest of the world, stifling its voices until they’re a deaf mass of vibrations in the wind. It’s pointless. There is no place for you here, and why would there be?

But then your ears catch your name. You hear it from that boy, who now stands barely a meter in front of you. “That’s you, isn’t it? Mimi told me so much about you.” Your gaze settles on his white sweater, not daring any higher place, and you hug your chest protectively. In the corner of your eye you see the group has opened into a semicircle around you and is observing you curiously. You gulp down hard: “Yes.”

You can’t see his face very well, but you do hear the wide, friendly grin in his voice: “I knew it! There are so many things I want to ask you! My name is Kazunari Miyoshi, by the way, but everyone calls me Kazu. Come on, let’s go!”

It’s a lot to take in — he speaks fast and loudly about whatever comes to mind as he jogs inside the bar, but honesty rings clearly through his words. And when everyone has turned away and you finally exhale, you begin to ask yourself how come this Miyoshi seems to know you. Perhaps...

Sumire holds the door open for you with a gentle smile and happy eyes and your stomach churns in uncertainty.

You tail after the group, guided by the sound of laughter, and as you enter the karaoke room your attention is drawn by Miyoshi, already positioned at the table and pointing you to the seat right next to him. You take note of Sumire’s place at the opposite corner of the couch and reluctantly make your way towards Miyoshi, biting the inside of your cheek as you sit. You hold his stare as little as possible, desperate to seem distracted by your purse and jacket, but when you briefly raise your gaze towards him again the air is knocked out of your lungs — he’s looking at you with an incredibly soft expression, unlike anything you’ve seen before, and his green eyes drink up the purple glare of the neon lights. His kindness truly scares you. Yet you can’t shake the urge of wanting to paint him. 

“You’re the artist from the other side of the hallway.” His voice comes out quiet and full of genuine admiration. Your eyes widen as your jaw slacks, the confirmation of your earlier suspicions shaking you deeply. Sumire didn’t lie. Miyoshi is the student who made that beautiful painting, and... “ _You_ wanted to meet me!” you exclaim with newfound excitement, the flattery coloring your face crimson. Miyoshi’s smile becomes shy and he scratches the nape of his neck, dropping his gaze to his balled fist on the table. “Well, yeah...” he blushes, glowing under the dim lighting.

His features are evidently masculine, yet delicate like a young boy’s. His hair appears unexpectedly well-groomed and neatly styled and you can tell plenty of thought has gone into his choice of clothing, so that it would fit him like a glove. “And I was really hoping to make a good first impression...” his tone lowers until it’s all but a whisper, but you have no problem listening to him when everything else is white noise against your eardrums — “...so you’ll have to tell me what you think of me later!” he laughs heartily behind the back of his hand. At once, you understand why he seems to have everybody under a magic spell. Miyoshi twinkles like a star in your eyes and, strangely, he feels both close and extremely far away.

The following hour passes you by with unusual speed, as Miyoshi asks questions upon questions and keeps the conversation lively and endearing with a few jokes and anecdotes of his own. Even while eating his teeth shine brightly in your direction, which makes you chuckle more than once. 

However, just as you’re finishing the last bite of your burger, someone thrusts a black karaoke microphone into your vision. “Hey, first-year, sing something for us!” comes a shrill feminine voice from above. Although you find no malice in this, your panicked heart hiccups and you instinctively glance at Sumire for help. She simply nods at you and says: “Why not give it a try?”

For some childish reason, you feel backstabbed. You thought she would save you, because you both know you’re incapable of saving yourself, but she didn’t. And now that everybody in the room is staring at you expectantly, you can’t possibly refuse and let them down. Swallowing a big gulp of air, and your pride with it, you take the microphone in your trembling hands and make your way to the stage.

You scroll through the list of available songs and click on the first title that looks remotely familiar. You hesitantly turn back towards the table as the opening instrumentals come to a close, but your head is strictly cast downwards, your eyes squeezed shut. Then, the first few notes leave your lips with a nervous crack that makes you visibly cringe. A painful lump forms in your throat and tightens each second, yet you force yourself to carry on — if only to get this over with and never do it again.

Your voice trembles increasingly, but it doesn’t sound terribly off-key. All is silent off the stage and you’re too preoccupied by the strain in your windpipes to pay any heed to the panic creeping into your chest, not until it’s too late. About halfway through the song, you hear a muffled giggle that makes your stomach drop. Your singing stops as your whole body freezes in terror. That was undeniably Sumire. She might have been laughing at something else, or it might have been a cough, or even your imagination — the loud music allows ample space for doubt — but it’s still enough to make the microphone slip from your fingers as you instinctively hurry to the exit.

You find yourself at the back of the building, ankles-deep in a fresh coat of snow and tears drizzling down silently like the ice flakes twirling to the ground all about. You snake your arms around your waist in an attempt to bring yourself some heat, but it does little to help. You’re not sure how long you stand there, watching the pitch black sky with the shadow of your shame looming tall behind you, when suddenly a warmth you recognize is delicately placed upon your shoulders... it’s your coat.

“What’s up?” Miyoshi whispers, with the gentleness of the snow. Your cold lips release an audible gasp and you cup your face in your palms, hiding from him. You don’t want him to see you in your weakest state, you don’t want him to worry or fear you, but his touch is so soft that it makes you unconsciously lean back into him for comfort. “What’s up?” he asks again, patiently, and a defeated sigh escapes you. It’s because I’m weak, you tell yourself. It’s because he’s too warm. The dam breaks, and everything you were bottling up rushes out of you in broken sentences.

“I can never be good enough,” you choke out, “for myself or for anybody else. I’m so tired of myself, I can’t do anything right. All I know how to do is brood and complain. Everyone’s going to leave me eventually. Just like my mom –”

You pause at the shock of having uttered those last words. Your lips formed them on impulse, spurred on by the intensity of your emotions, and it’s frightening because that makes them all the more sincere. Maybe your issues are much greater than simply messing up a song at karaoke, or the fear of disappointing others...

You try to reorganize your thoughts aloud, encouraged by Miyoshi’s solemn stare. “My mom and I... We’ve always been very close. She taught me how to draw, and we would spend whole days painting together. She has the most beautiful smile... But she wasn’t alright, and would forget to take her pills... So I had to take care of her. But, one day... I came back home... and she was on the floor. She wasn’t moving. They took her away... I had forgotten about the pills and didn’t even make it in time, when I was the only one she could depend on...” You begin to sob as a waterfall of tears glazes your vision. “She was so pale. I couldn’t find a heartbeat. I was so scared. And I was a total failure. Maybe she tried to leave me... because I’m such a bad daughter.”

Miyoshi tightens his arms around your shoulders and lays his chin atop your head, burying the latter deep into his chest. He doesn’t speak while you let your frustration out; he doesn’t even budge from his spot. His kindness truly scares you. You’ve never been held this way before — as if you were a porcelain doll and he were the only thing keeping you from crumbling to pieces.

You sniffle weakly as your body finally becomes limp from exhaustion. Your hands are still tightly grasping the sleeves of his jacket. The sudden urge to fall asleep is about to overtake you, when you feel his baritone voice reverberate through his ribcage and against your cheek.

“You know,” he says, “Mimi told me that she loves you a lot. Almost like a sister.” You tense up as your heart leaps into your throat in disbelief. Miyoshi hums pensively. “See, some people can be very good friends to you even without being able to really understand you... That’s the kind of bond I think you have with Mimi. When she talked to me about your paintings, although we both liked them, I knew she couldn’t see what I saw.”

You timidly lift your gaze, searching for Miyoshi’s: “What did you see?”

Miyoshi links his eyes with yours, and you glimpse snow swirling in the green of his irises. “I saw myself,” he says. The ghost of a smile reappears on his thin lips. “I used to be just like you. I was afraid of saying ‘no’ or I would have let my friends down and they would have left me. I honestly thought I didn’t have any worth if I couldn’t keep others happy.” He closes his eyes. You hold your breath. “But it’s not like that. Someone very important to me once said that there’s meaning in disagreeing, too, and that my opinion is just as valuable as anyone else’s... I was saved.” The scene of a lone boat lifting up high in the night sky, where the stars sail away together with it, plays before you. Your sight is yet again clouded by tears. “That’s what a friend is, that’s all a friend needs to be. That’s what you have in Mimi and what she has in you, because you are a good friend and a good daughter. So don’t keep holding on to this burden all by yourself.” 

He pats your head fondly and takes in your awed expression, while his own mellows in return. You had no idea someone so poised, so bright, had bloomed from the same rock you’ve been fighting so hard just to survive in. While he is the sunflower chasing the light, you’re merely the musk dwelling in the darkness. You know he understands, though he’s not judging — only sharing his little secret in order to free you from yours. Simply witnessing his existence makes you feel somewhat hopeful.

“Why are you so nice to me?” you ask.

Miyoshi casts you a charming smirk and winks: “Because I hate seeing a cute girl cry!”

A small corner of the sky turns baby blue, like the distant memory of a serene day you haven’t seen in too long a time. Your voices flicker with quiet, relieved laughter. You can hear the slow flap of a bird’s wings cutting through the frosty air, the hushed exhales of your ill mother, the sound of the Earth revolving to birth a new day... In that precious instant, all becomes clear.

You know just what to say when Miyoshi asks about your first impression of him later that evening: “Nothing less than exactly what I pictured”. He smiles so widely that his eyes and nose crinkle while his cheeks swell with a rosy hue.

On that cold winter day, you meet someone. Someone who smells like honey and summer dew and who holds you with the tenderness of a snowfall. He sparkles in a way you’ve never seen anyone do before and, just like the beacon of a lighthouse, he guides you home — someplace safe, someplace warm, someplace where you can still hope.

Deep down, all you needed was for someone to listen.


End file.
